


Kiss Me

by satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Boys Kissing, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Kisses, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of ten kissing drabbles, in celebration of a full year of writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Combeferre/Eponine, Upside-Down Kiss

Combeferre opts for the lawn seats.

Normally when he goes to the concerts the symphony puts on during the summer he will pay for an aisle seat in the bandshell, where he will sit alone, his long legs crossed and his eyes closed, and allow the music to wash over him.

But this time he is not alone, and he thinks the lawn is the best place for them to experience the music together.

Eponine has never been to a concert, but she has always wanted to, and she wants to know what it’s all about and why Combeferre loves it so much. On the day of the concert, as he prepares a picnic basket for them — sandwiches, cookies, fruit, and a bottle of wine — she peppers him with questions about the performers and the composers and the pieces. wanting to know everything he knows and then some.

When they arrive at the venue, they find a spot on the lawn and spread out their blanket, their modest repast a contrast to the elegant spreads other patrons are consuming. Neither of them notices, however, as they kick off their shoes and continue their conversation, feeding each other body and soul.

The concert starts at sunset, and as the music wafts out over the grass, Eponine stretches out on the blanket, her head on Combeferre’s lap. He strokes her long dark hair and watches her as her eyes close and her ears open, knowing from the expression on her face that she is falling in love with the symphony as he did when he was a boy.

And as the string section plays a crescendo, Eponine closes her eyes, and Combeferre cannot help but to lean down and kiss her ever so lightly on the lips; she smiles and whispers one word against his lips, referring both to the music and to the man: “Love.”


	2. Jehan/Courfeyrac: Stomach Kiss

Courfeyrac looks so perfect.

Well, maybe not completely perfect, Jehan has to admit to himself— Courfeyrac desperately needs a haircut, he hasn’t been to the gym in months, and his bathing suit is hideously ugly even by Prouvaire’s standards — but sprawled on his back on the beach blanket, his eyes closed and golden skin glistening with drops of seawater, perfection certainly seems within reach.

As Courfeyrac sleeps, Jehan tries to concentrate on his reading, as he has a stack of books he needs to read this summer to prepare for his comps, but he cannot — they are at the beach, for God’s sake, and constructivism is about the last thing he wants to think about right now.

Certainly not with his boyfriend lying right beside him.

Jehan props himself up on his elbows and takes in the view wanting to touch him but managing to resist, despite the many lascivious thoughts consuming him. He squirms and fidgets, willing Courfeyrac to awaken — until he can wait no longer and leans over to plant a soft kiss just above Courfeyrac’s belly button.

Courfeyrac’s eyes fly open. “Yes?” he asks, his voice still husky with sleep.

“You’re beautiful, do you know that?” Prouvaire says, kissing a trail up Courfeyrac’s chest, finally pecking him on the lips.

Courfeyrac laughed. “Far from it,” he says, ruffling Prouvaire’s curls. “There’s a whole line of people who can recount my every flaw — Enjolras, Combeferre, every ex-boyfriend I ever had—.”

“I don’t care,” Prouvaire said„ snuggling close to him. “To me you are perfect.”

Courfeyrac kisses the top of his head. “Speak for yourself, Prouvaire,” he murmurs. “Speak for yourself.”


	3. Courfeyrac/Enjolras: Nose Kiss

Enjolras was pacing around his rooms, clearly agitated — he had been working on a treatise on the role of government all day, and he was struggling to get the words out.

“You need to calm yourself,” Combeferre said patiently from his seat at Enjolas’s desk, not looking up from his own writing. “Walking about is not going to help matters.”

Enjolras stopped and glared at him. “How can you be calm at a time like this, friend? The future of the republic is at stake, and I cannot find a way to properly express it.”

Courfeyrac, who had been perched in the other chair, reading a book, rose and placed himself in front of Enjolras, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Perhaps if you simply relax, the prose will begin to flow from your pen,” he advised.

“I don’t think I can,” Enjolras protested, his red lips forming a perfect pout.

Courfeyrac laughed and kissed him on the nose. “I have the utmost faith in you, Enjolras,” he assured him. “Come and rest,” Courfeyrac said, guiding him to the bed. “The words will be there when you awake — I promise.”


	4. Enjolras/Combeferre: Forehead Kiss

“Enjolras?” Combeferre said as he entered his friend’s rooms without knocking, surprised to see that he was not sitting at his writing desk, as was his custom. “Are you here?” he called as he looked around, finally glancing into the bedchamber, where Enjolras was lying on his bed fully clothed, his eyes closed and his face straining. “Is everything all right?” Combeferre asked as he rushed toward him.

“It is my head,” Enjolras replied, struggling to sit up. “I have had this throbbing pain for two days now. I feel as if someone has fired a cannon into my skull. I cannot bear to even think.”

Combeferre sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Enjolras’s hand gently. “Do not get up,” he said. “You will be of no use to the revolution in your current condition.”

“But you need me—” Enjolras protested.

“Not in this state,” Combeferre interrupted, releasing Enjolras’s hand and patting him on the thigh. “Allow me to make you some tea — I know just the herbal remedy that will help alleviate your pain.”

Enjolras smiled wanly. “I do not know how I would manage without you,” he said.

Combeferre pushed a stray lock of blond hair off of Enjolras’s face and pressed a long gentle kiss to his pale forehead. “Nor I you,” he murmured.


	5. Enjolras/Grantaire: Stomach Kiss

It is the night before a protest, and Enjolras can’t sleep.

He keeps turning over from side to side, his mind racing as he thinks about his speech, about whether the volunteers will show up to hand out leaflets and whether the cops will be adversarial or friendly. As his mind races, his gaze eventually settles on the man lying beside him.

Grantaire.

They’ve only been together a short time, although they had known each other for what seemed like forever. Grantaire would come to the meetings of Les Amis and sit in the corner, drinking and shooting barbs Enjolras’s way at every opportunity. Enjolras would parry each thrust, trying to convince Grantaire of the error of his ways.

He never succeeded.

But a few weeks ago, after a meeting, they were the last two left in the Musain, and they actually began to talk — not the very loud, very debates they would have in front of their friends, but an actual conversation. It was a conversation that went on into the night — a conversation that explored their families and their dreams and their insecurities — and ultimately ended in Grantaire’s bed.

They have spent just about every night together since, exploring each other’s bodies and minds. Enjolras is a brilliant man, but he has so much to learn — about how to satisfy another, both physically and emotionally, and about how to love each other and be the recipients of love in return. 

And Enjolras is nothing if not an eager pupil.

Grantaire always sleeps in his boxer shorts, he has learned, and usually sprawled out on his back on top of the covers. Awake, he is always so self-conscious about his body, but in slumber, he is clearly at peace with everything about it, not caring about his belly or his scraggly hair.

Enjolras cannot help himself, and rolls over so he is closer to him. He traces his fingers down the very center of Grantaire, and leans down to plant a tender kiss on Grantaire’s stomach.

To him, Grantaire is beautiful — and someday, somehow, Grantaire will believe it himself.


	6. Prouvaire/Combeferre: Kiss in the Rain

It is almost 2:00 in the morning, and Prouvaire and Combeferre are still talking.

They have been at the Musain most of the evening, as is their habit, chattering away about philosophy and politics and whatever else catches their fancy. Eventually, the exhausted proprietor ushers them out of the building and onto the street, where a delicate summer rain is falling.

“Do you have an umbrella, Prouvaire?” Combeferre asks, as he opens his own.

Prouvaire shook his head. “I do not — I will have to make do just with my coat,” he says, tugging his threadbare jacket over his head.

Combeferre holds the umbrella over both of their heads. “Come, I will walk you home,” he offers, knowing full well that Prouvaire’s lodgings are in the opposite direction from his own. “You can continue my poetic education as we go,” he says, offering his arm to Prouvaire.

Prouvaire answers by taking his friend’s arm and ducking under the umbrella.

The walk through the deserted streets is not long, and before they know it, they are standing in front of Prouvaire’s door. The two men linger outside, neither one wanting the evening to end just yet, despite the misty darkness.

“Have you ever been in love?” Prouvaire asks him unexpectedly, not making eye contact with Combeferre as he poses the question.

Combeferre looks at him quizzically. “No—not that I am aware of. Why do you ask?”

Prouvaire continues to look down at his wet shoes, his cheeks reddening. “I sometimes believe I am in love,” he confesses.

Combeferre reaches out and touches his arm. “In love with whom, my dear Prouvaire?” he inquires gently.

“With you,” he finally says, his eyes rising to meet Combeferre’s. Before his own timidity can stop him, Prouvaire reaches up to cup Combeferre’s cheek in his hand, and brushes his lips with a kiss. He pulls back to look at Combeferre, whose eyes are wide and whose cheeks are flushed.

And whose umbrella is tossed aside as he kisses Prouvaire passionately, the rain baptizing their newly confessed love.


	7. Joly/Combeferre: Kiss in the Rain

It was an overcast, sultry Sunday afternoon, and Joly and Combeferre were out for their weekly stroll through the city. It was their custom to spend their day off from lectures and dissections taking long meandering walks that often took them far from home, and that day was no exception, despite the threatening skies.

As the afternoon wore on, thunder began to rumble over the city, and with each rumble Joly would look up at the skies anxiously — he had never been fond of thunderstorms, and he could never quite understand his companion’s fascination with them.

Combeferre knew of Joly’s fear, however, and as soon as the storm started threatening, he took Joly’s arm without a word and steered him back toward their own neighborhood, quickening the pace in hopes that they would arrive home ahead of the lightning and rain.

But the two men had wandered very far afield, and were only about halfway home when the heavens opened, so they had to run for cover in an alley, where they huddled together out of the rain.

"Are you all right?" Combeferre asked, searching Joly’s face, which had gone almost white.

Joly nodded. “I will be fine,” he answered — although his eyes betrayed the truth.

There were no other people in sight, so Combeferre felt bold enough to put an arm around his friend and stroke his damp hair. “This will pass soon, I am certain of it,” he reassured Joly. “And you will soon be back home in your rooms.”

Joly looked up at him, his green eyes wide. “Will you take my pulse, Combeferre?” he asked, offering his wrist to Combeferre.

Combeferre lifted his wrist to his lips and kissed it tenderly, then kissed Joly sweetly on the lips. “Your heart will be fine,” he whispered. “I will take the utmost care of it — if you will let me.”


	8. Combeferre/Courfeyrac: Goofy Forehead Kiss

Every time they walk down the streets of Provincetown during their vacation, Courfeyrac tries to take Combeferre’s hand.

Every time he tries, Combeferre pulls it away.

They’ve only been a couple for a few months, and this is their first vacation together. Courfeyrac had planned it all perfectly — a lovely room at a guesthouse in the East End, dinners at the best restaurants in town, sunset walks by the dunes — a romantic getaway that any couple could appreciate.

Combeferre is certainly appreciative in private — he certainly demonstrates his appreciation noisily and vigorously to Courfeyrac every night in various locations throughout their cozy suite — but in public, he remains wary of any displays of affection.

"It’s P-town, for Christ’s sake," Courfeyrac says after being rebuffed yet again, this time as they are standing at the edge of the wharf, watching the various boats coming in and out of the harbor. "There are far more interesting things to gawk at than us, you know," he points out.

Combeferre shoves his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts and shuffles his feet. “That doesn’t mean we need to make a spectacle of ourselves,” he mutters.

"You think my holding your hand is making a spectacle of myself?" Courfeyrac asks, as his eyes take on a devilish glint. "Oh, I’ll show you what it’s like to make a spectacle of myself," he says teasingly, throwing his arms around Combeferre’s neck and planting a loud, sloppy kiss on his mouth, moaning loudly and slipping his tongue into Combeferre’s mouth, which earns him a stare from a family wandering nearby and a thumbs up from a handsome young man tying up a nearby boat. "Is this enough of a spectacle for you?" he asks, nuzzling Combeferre’s neck and running his hands under Combeferre’s t-shirt.

Combeferre is turning several shades of red. “Stop it,” he hisses. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Courfeyrac puts his hands on either sides of Combeferre’s head and pecks him noisily on the lips. “But I love you, my dear Combeferre,” he shouts, causing even more heads to turn.

Combeferre pulls away and looks at him. “You love me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

"I do," Courfeyrac says more calmly, taking Combeferre’s hands in his. "And maybe I just want the world to know it, that’s all."

Combeferre embraces the shorter man and presses his lips to his forehead. “I love you too,” he says in his quiet way, then takes him by the hand as they walk back toward town. “And if you insist, we’ll let the world know it — as long as you know it too.”


	9. Combeferre/Grantaire: Forceful Kiss

Before tonight Combeferre had only ever kissed two other people.

There was the one time Courfeyrac kissed him after a night of drunken debauchery, a kiss that was wine-soaked and a source of almost immediate regret.

And there had been the countless times he and Prouvaire had exchanged tender, quiet kisses during their brief love affair last summer, a flame that had burned out as quickly as it had ignited.

But the third person was different.

Combeferre had always adored Grantaire — he knew better than anyone that below the layers of cynicism and defensiveness lay a man of many talents and passions — but he was a practical man, and he knew better than anyone that Grantaire’s heart belonged to Combeferre’s best friend.

Or so he thought.

They are in the alley beside the Musain, and Combeferre is angry — Grantaire had been drunk and surly and a general nuisance, so Combeferre had dragged him outside and shoved him up against the brick wall, intending to upbraid him for his disruptive ways.

Instead Grantaire comes at him and pushes him back against the opposite wall — and kisses him fiercely.

At first Combeferre is so surprised that he does not know how to respond — his shoulders tense and his arms freeze at his sides. But as the kiss goes on, and Grantaire hooks his arm around Combeferre’s neck and lets his free hand brush his side, Combeferre relaxes into the kiss, savoring the feeling of Grantaire’s lips on his own.

When they come up for air, Combeferre has a million questions he wants to ask — how did this happen and why now and what next — but instead he collapses back against the wall, chest heaving and eyes glassy, still in shock.

And wondering when Grantaire may do it again.


	10. Joly/Prouvaire: Multiple Kisses

“Jehan? Are you all right?” Joly asks, his face crumpled with concern at the sight of his boyfriend standing outside his door in the pouring rain, his clothes drenched and his blond hair plastered to his forehead. At the sight of Jehan’s stricken face, Joly completely forgets the storm raging around them, and takes him into his arms, kissing his forehead and his nose and finally his lips. “Come inside,” he urges, pulling him inside. “You’ll catch your death if we stay out here.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Prouvaire mutters as he kicks off his soaked shoes.

Joly goes into the bathroom and fetches a towel, which he hands to Prouvaire. “Don’t talk like that,” he says, only slightly alarmed, knowing well Prouvaire’s tendency to be overdramatic. “What happened?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

“We had our concrit today,” Prouvaire says, tugging his wet t-shirt over his head. “And everyone hated my piece.”

“Everyone?” Joly looks and sounds skeptical. “I have a hard time believing that.”

Prouvaire shakes his head as he peels off his jeans. “I don’t know why I ever thought I could be a writer,” he says sorrowfully as he starts to towel dry his hair. “And I have a terrible migraine, and then I forgot my umbrella because I am such an idiot.”

Joly pats the cushion next to him. “You are not an idiot,” he says as Prouvaire flops on the couch in just his boxers. “You are brilliant and talented and amazing. I wish you could see what I see in you,” he says, kissing him on his damp forehead. “Lie down and let me rub your head,” he offers.

Prouvaire nods and adjusts his position so he’s lying with his head on Joly’s lap. “I don’t know why you put up with me,” he says as Joly rubs his scalp.

Joly smiles, having heard this so many times since they started dating, and leans down to kiss him on the lips. “Because I love you, you silly boy,” he replies for what seems like the millionth time, although he would say it a million more times if he had to.

Prouvaire finally looks up at him and smiles. “And I love you, Jolllly,” he says, his eyes wide as he looks at his boyfriend, then rises to his feet and takes Joly’s hand. “Let me take you in the bedroom and show you how much,” he says.

Joly wraps his arms around Prouvaire’s waist and kisses his bare stomach. “I don’t think I can make it that far,” he says with a devilish look in his eye.


End file.
